The History of Warfare

Major General Barmy-Phipps discusses Operation Mutton

1943 and Britain was entering the darkest
days of World War II. The Normandy landings had ended in disaster, Germany and the Axis
powers were seriously threatening our Atlantic supply routes and, on a more serious note,
a touring production of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' came under heavy enemy fire in one of
the shallower parts of deepest Burma.

The future looked bleak and the prospect
of a Europe dominated by Hitler and his goose-stepping bunch of sausage eaters was a very
real one.

But, as ever, when the odds were against
us good old British ingenuity saved the day. On this occasion, disaster was averted
chiefly by the intervention of one extraordinary man. Our goose would have been well and
truly cooked had it not been for the remarkable work of Eugene Rumbold and his camouflaged
sheep.

Only the humble badger can rival the sheep as a weapon of war

Of course, sheep were
no strangers to armed conflict, having already played a substantial part in the history of
warfare.

In Medieval times, flocks of sheep were stampeded through fortified settlements
in order to create a diversion. Norman invaders hollowed them out and used them as canoes.
And during the First World War they were driven across minefields for fun.

But their most notable
use came at the outbreak of World War II, when a platoon of Highland Shaggies took a
vitally important German outpost and managed to hold it for three days before
reinforcements arrived.

Tougher than ducks, sturdier than weasels, only the humble badger
can rival the sheep as a weapon of war. However, thus far sheep had only played a limited
role in strategic matters, and rarely had they been known to rise above the lowly rank of
Lieutenant Corporal.

Interfering with the local sheep population

That was all to change
when Eugene Rumbold, a lighthouse keeper on Sark, made his revolutionary discovery.

Away
from the prying eyes of the mainland, Rumbold would often while away the lonely hours
interfering with the local sheep population. One afternoon, whilst experimenting with a
process involving nylon straps, fabric dyes and vulcanised trousers, he hit upon a method
of breeding camouflaged sheep.

Camouflaged sheep were
not, in themselves, a new idea. Previously, the Derbyshire Light Infantry had
experimented with staining specially trained sheep with a selection of carefully applied
fabric dyes, but the colour tended to wash out very easily when the sheep were laundered.

Where Rumbold's method was different was that he bred sheep to produce wool in
patterns of mottled greens and browns, which would blend in easily with the background.
His process also had the advantage of producing sheep that could be washed extensively without losing their
pigmentation, even using fabric softener on program nine, with a fast spin and hot air
tumble dry.

Seeing as I owned my own trousers, I was invited to join this top-secret project

At first, the full
potential of these creatures was not realised. The army was only interested in their wool
in order to make the camouflaged uniforms that were so popular with fashion-conscious
young soldiers serving on the front line. However, it soon became apparent that these
animals could be useful in so many other ways.

And so in the autumn of
1943, Brigadier Roland Potato of the Staffordshire Heavy Metal Lancers was given the task
of taking a small, hand-picked squad of Rumbold's camouflaged sheet and turning them
into a fit fighting squad that would eventually see action in the front line.

I was a
young lieutenant at the time but, seeing as I owned my own trousers, I was invited to join
this top-secret project. For six long months we put the sheep through an intensive
training programme. It was tough going for the poor animals, and many of them found it
difficult to adapt. Previously they had been content to mill around on hillsides, munching
grass, and so most were just not ready for the rigours of army life.

I regret to say that
a great many did not make it through the training programme, and those that failed the
grade were used for target practice. Nevertheless, the ones that made it turned out to be
vicious bastards of the highest order - an awesome fighting force with little regard for
the sanctity of human life. We finally decided they were ready for action when they ate
their gym instructor.

Pulling a Curly Wurly from my pocket

And so the operation
was ready to begin.

Acting on information supplied by Sir John Mills, the famous actor and
heated trouser press, the sheep were ordered to infiltrate the Nazi headquarters in
Hamburg. At the crack of midnight on a blustery winter's day in July, they were
driven out to a secret airfield in Surrey, clearly signposted from the A3.

I admit that I
had become attached to many of them during our time together, especially Maisie, a young
Rough Fell who really lived up to her name.

It was with a heavy heart that I watched them
being herded onto a Lancaster bomber. Giving Maisie my last Rolo and the address of a good
chiropodist in Leipzig, I tearfully waved them off.

I still remember
vividly the chill I felt as the doors were closed and the engines turned over. I recall
the dark silhouette of the plane as it taxied slowly along the runway; gathered speed and
then thrust up into the dark, forbidding sky, outlined starkly against a bomber's moon. I
recollect pulling a Curly Wurly from my pocket and wondering if I would ever see those
brave sheep again.

Crying over spilt wool

No. I never did. They
were all shot. Bit of a bastard really, after we'd spent so long training them up.

Still there was no
point crying over spilt wool. These were harsh times, after all. We set to work again,
putting a new bunch of recruits through their paces. In time I learnt to forget all about
Maisie, losing myself in the arms of a Moorland Craggy called Tilly.

But in wartime,
nothing is permanent. And so, six months later, I once more found myself at
that bleak aerodrome, haunted by the wraiths of long lost aircrews. Once more I found
myself watching as another squad of hardy volunteers prepared to do battle with our deadly
foes. Would they prevail against the vicious Hun? Would they succeed where their
predecessors had failed?

No. This lot were barbecued at a birthday party in Frankfurt.

Two years of metal polish abuse

Third time
lucky. Another bunch of sheep. Another six months. Another misty morning standing on the
tarmac with the engine noise screaming above the wind. By now I had my own parking space.

Could it be that we might succeed this time? To be honest, I was past caring. Two years of
metal polish abuse and advanced diphtheria had left me a burnt-out shell of a man.

As the
Lancaster trundled down the runway, I seem to recall that I dropped my trousers, waved my
bottom in the direction of the departing aircraft and shouted, "Fry you bastards!
Fry!" It is not a moment I look back upon with any sense of pride.

The truth was that
my hopes had been shattered twice already, and I did not see that this occasion would be
any different. As it turned out, I was wrong.

Paying heed to the
lessons we had learnt from our previous failures, Brigadier Potato decided that this time
we would drop the sheep without the expedient of parachutes. These, it was felt, had
previously presented too much of a target to the waiting Hun. Our sheep had been sitting
ducks.

The inherent elasticity of sheep is often overlooked

The idea was to
make use of the sheep's 'natural bounce'. The inherent elasticity of sheep is often
overlooked, and yet it is the one major factor that has enabled them to survive since the late
cretaceous period.

This ability means they are able to weather horrific falls from large
mountains, trees and public buildings without so much as a scratch. However, gifted though
they undoubtedly are, it would not enable them to survive the somewhat excessive drop of
several thousand feet from an aeroplane.

Some effort needed to be made to assist them, and
to this end we enlisted the help of the 3rd Battalion Light Pancake Gymnastics team to
teach them the art of falling correctly. By the end of an intense three-week long crash
course, the sheep had learnt how to bend their legs properly on landing.

Nevertheless, high
altitude tests revealed that this was still not enough to counter the effects of high
impact, and only resulted in our losing many a brave volunteer in our various 'test
drops'. Not that this work went entirely to waste - many years later Madeline
Crudworthy, a Devon Closewool, earned herself a silver medal at the 1954 Helsinki Olympics
for her very impressive floor display.

The bouncing wheelbarrow

But it still left us
with a problem.

In our desperation we turned to Barnes Wallace, inventor of the bouncing
bomb. Since the success of his dazzling innovation, Barnes Wallace had turned his hand to
a number of other inventions based on the same principle, although these had met with a
mixed reception.

The bouncing bus, the bouncing typewriter and the bouncing wheelbarrow
had proved less than successful, although the rebounding walnut did prove to be a
surprising hit in Finland.

Wallace's skill and expertise turned out to be of invaluable
assistance to us, and he soon provided us with bouncing sheep by fitting them with
specially developed rubber boots. So simple, and yet so brilliant!

All of
our work might be for nothing if we didn't act before Hitler had chance to
surrender

There was, I'm afraid,
no time to test them properly. By now the war was rapidly drawing to a close, and all of
our work might be for nothing if we didn't act promptly - before Hitler had chance to
surrender.

And so 'Operation
Mutton' went ahead as planned and the sheep were dropped over Hamburg.

For the most part
the boots worked perfectly, providing a safe landing for most of the squad. Sadly, there
were a number of casualties. A significant proportion of the sheep landed on their heads,
leading some of the project's more vocal critics to suggest that the animals should also
have been kitted out with rubber hats. Of course, it's very easy to make these sorts of
observations with the benefit of hindsight.

In other cases the boots worked rather too
well, resulting in their wearers bouncing straight through the target area and deep into
occupied territory, where they were never seen again. However, a few did manage to arrest
their flight by careering into buildings and tall people. When they had finally come to
rest, they set about the daring business of subterfuge.

Closely guarded information

Until
very recently, the main objectives of Operation Mutton have been subject to the Official
Secrets Act. The identities of our ovine operatives and their activities behind
enemy lines have quite rightly been kept from the common
riffraff who have no understanding of military matters.

In recent years, however,
certain documents have entered into the public domain, and dangerous socialist notions of
what is and is not in the public interest have come to the fore. More importantly,
certain publishers and broadcasters, keen to put this hitherto untold tale before the
people, are prepared to pay top wonga for the story.

Personally, I think this is
deplorable. Sadly, however, there is no shortage of people prepared to step up and
collect their thirty pieces of silver, and so I may as well be the first in the queue.
At least that way, I can play my part in ensuring that less patriotic individuals
are not allowed to cash in.

The fact is, only eight
operatives actually survived the drop. Eight from an original platoon some thirty
sheep strong might seem like a meagre statistic, but we had planned for heavy casualties.
Indeed, considering the staggering number of animals we managed to kill in basic training,
it's a damn miracle that the mangy creatures had got as far as the plane, never mind
landing in one piece.

Shopping lists and football results

So anyway, once they
were down safely, squad leader Captain Blacky Greyfur revealed their orders. We
had got wind of a secret German plot to use moles to infiltrate Britain, cause havoc and
generally create a terrible fuss.

Actually, it wasn't much of a secret, since we had
read it in one of their newspapers. Damn lucky we came across it when we did. Trouble was, we had so many people working at breaking German codes
and ciphers, that we rarely found time to monitor more direct means of communication.

For instance, it wasn't until the war was over that we realised most of their
top-secret communiqués were delivered by a chap in a van with a loud hailer on the roof.
Meanwhile, all that our chaps at Bletchley were able to get hold of was
shopping lists and football results.

Anyhow, Captain Greyfur laid down the team's three main mission directives:

Locate the secret base where the moles were being trained.

Infiltrate the facility and cause maximum disruption to the project.

Bring back something nice for Brigadier Potato. A
little souvenir of the trip: snow globe, novelty mug, T-shirt - that sort of thing.
(We hinted that a little presentation box of confectionery might be a nice idea,
although we told them to avoid nougat as it brought him out in a rash.)

Split up and blend in

To accomplish our objectives it was
necessary for our operatives to split up and blend in with the local population. If
possible, they were to assume positions of influence and responsibility, in the hope that
this might afford them access to privileged information. However, above all such
considerations it was vital for the sake of their continued survival that our brave
volunteers did not draw attention to themselves.

This was not easy.

The Germany of World War II was a dark and austere place, where colour was outlawed
and the whole land lay leaden and insipid beneath a heavy pall of black and white.

People hurried from place to place in the kind of quirky, speeded up way that you
may be aware of from old newsreels, ever aware of the constant threat from air raids,
Vikings and the Black Death. Workers toiled silently in the fields, harvesting
doodlebugs or digging up panzers.

And on every street corner were members of the
Hitler Youth armed with semi-automatic banjos. Most of them would play you a tune as
soon as look at you.

How to play the tuba

This was the Germany
into which our brave volunteers pitched themselves headlong. We had prepared them as
best we could for the assignment: we had given them each a bratwurst, shown them how to
play the tuba and taught them how to say 'baa' with a German accent.

Unfortunately,
it isn't always possible to prepare your operatives for everything that fate has in store
for them. There comes a point when the months of training are no longer of use, and
your team has to survive on its wits. It was inevitable that we would lose a number
of them over the following weeks.

The first to be
compromised was Lieutenant Marjorie Proudbleater-Jones, who gave herself away at a tavern
when she found herself unable to remember the German for 'cheese and onion'.

Shortly afterwards,
Private Renee Closeknit bought it. Up until that point, Private Closeknit had made a
remarkably good job of integrating herself into the community. She had opened a
fruit and veg shop on the outskirts of Munich, and not only was she able to gather some
excellent information in the form of local gossip, but the business was turning a tidy
little profit too. Sadly, she fell foul of local restrictions concerning the sale of
radishes on Wednesdays, and her cover was blown.

Both Marjorie and Renee
were shot as spies. By contrast, the third casualty made the mistake of carrying the
deception rather too far. Private Minty Dingle was fortunate enough to secure a
position as a typist at German High Command, but it wasn't long before her superiors
recognised her talents as a military strategist. She quickly rose through the German
command structure - eventually reaching the rank of Colonel - and was ultimately
hanged at Nuremberg.

Disfigurement and fatal debagging

When the squad
rendezvoused six weeks later, there were only four of them left (Private Doreen Lambchop
was sadly unable to make it as she had an appointment at the dentist).

However, in
spite of their reduced numbers, there was some good news. Sergeant Doris Shagnasty
had risked disfigurement and fatal debagging by raiding the office of a local official.
It had been a bit of a gamble but it had turned up trumps, and she was able to
report to the rest of the squad that the location of the secret mole facility was an
abandoned Gateau in the Black Forest.

Captain Greyfur decided
to waste no time and concocted a daring plan that combined good old-fashioned British
pluck with solid sheep dependability, and a dash of sheer genius. Under the pretext
of attempting to sell them life insurance, Sergeant Shagnasty engaged the enemy in a
lengthy discussion on their own doorstep. This distraction allowed Captain Greyfur
to sneak into the building undetected.

Meanwhile Private Henreitta 'Windpipe'
McJumper was tasked with stealing a tank for their getaway, whilst Private Dorothy Lamour
made sandwiches for the journey.

Ten thousand moles mobilised and eagerly waiting

Inside the base,
Captain Greyfur was fortunate enough to find the briefing room unattended. From
charts, maps and inventories she was able to piece together the details of the German
plan. It seems old Fritz had in excess of ten thousand moles mobilised
and eagerly waiting for the order to go. It could amount to nothing less than a
full-scale invasion of our country.

It was a frightening
prospect indeed. These moles could tunnel their way across the Channel in the dead
of night - silent, swift and undetected. When Britain awoke the next morning she would
find herself overrun with German vermin, and completely powerless to prevent them tearing
the infrastructure of our nation to pieces.

Captain Greyfur knew
she had to do something to prevent this catastrophe. She set to work with a marker
pen and altered the map of the invasion route before escaping to rejoin her comrades.
Thanks to her quick thinking, when 'M-Day' arrived, the moles' tunnels all emerged
in the Mediterranean and the entire invasion force drowned.

When our brave sheep
returned to England they were rightly hailed as heroes, and given extra slop.

Know-nothing lefty nutters

To this day, opinion
remains sharply divided over the effectiveness of the mission.

On the one hand, many
deeply knowledgeable and keenly analytical people like myself believe it turned the tide
of the war and made possible a glorious victory for the Allies.

On the other, some
know-nothing lefty nutters think it was a pointless and costly charade that had no
discernible effect on the outcome of the conflict.

Personally I prefer to keep an open
mind, and will not allow my personal involvement with the project to colour my judgement.

Nowadays, nearly sixty
years later, the role played by sheep in our modern armed forces is almost negligible. The
Army boasts only three, two of whom are mascots. There are none at all in the navy, and
the RAF will only employ them as ground crew.

Spacemen's cardigans

As for Eugene Rumbold himself, he moved to
America after the war, where he spent some time experimenting unsuccessfully with racoons
for Lockheed.

Later, he was employed by NASA to develop the controversial 'Space Sheep'.
It was a return to his first love for Rumbold, and he recorded some remarkable successes -
most notably the development of a flame-retardant wool to prevent sheep from burning up on
re-entry. This wool is still used today in spacemen's cardigans.

In spite of Rumbold's accomplishments, the
technology was considered too silly and was cancelled by the popular film actor Lee
Marvin, who had been handed control of the space programme in 1968.

Rumbold returned to
his lighthouse where he lived out the rest of his days. He eventually died in 1975,
lonely, forgotten and with an estimated fortune of about twenty million pounds.